


Featherweight Operator

by Ezlebe



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Gen, Street Racing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:59:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezlebe/pseuds/Ezlebe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Frank's driving kind of weird," Michael says, leaning back on the fence and tilting his head as he watches the cars appear around a street corner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Featherweight Operator

"Frank's driving kind of weird," Michael says, leaning back on the fence, tilting his head as he watches the cars appear around a street corner, their Coquette whipping in between an Infernus and Buffalo as it drifts around the curb. "A really good weird, I guess, sorta. Wish he'd been this good on the last job, actually."

Trevor shoots him a narrow look, one scarred brow going up. "What?"

"What?" Michael mocks, sneering slightly as he gestures toward the street. "His driving is - "

"Yo, they ain't got no White Hots, so you got Ike and Mikes," Franklin interrupts, throwing Trevor a bright blue and orange box. "Deal."

"Goddamn cheap gang bangers," Trevor mutters, ripping into the box with a scowl. "The quality of concessions has really gone down in the last few years." 

"What?" Michael says, honestly this time, looking out to the street as the cars swing around for their last lap. The Coquette is in second, hot on the tail of a Bullet, and just as the last corner is turned, it pulls out into first, the engine roaring as the driver guns it to the finish. 

"Fuck yeah," Trevor yells as he jumps over the railing and heads toward the car, fist pumping the air. 

"Who is - what?" Michael asks again, turning toward Franklin. 

Franklin shrugs at him. "Dude's excited we won?"

"No no, not that - who's driving my fucking car?" Michael asks angrily, gesturing toward the street. "Did you pick someone up without telling me; did you even get them vetted?"

"Why would we need to?" Franklin responds, raising an eyebrow, then glancing behind Michael before returning his eye contact. "Wait... Did T not tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Michael growls, grinding his teeth as he turns around, ready to rip Trevor's eyes out, or something equally as painful and gruesome. Instead of some random hood, however, he's greeted with the sight of a familiar blonde jumping excitedly and wrapping her arms around Trevor's neck, voice pitching so high he can hear it crack from thirty feet away. "That better not be who I fucking think it is."

"Yeah, kinda is," Franklin says with a sigh. 

Michael's already halfway over there before he even realizes he's moving, mentally preparing a lashing that will if nothing else make him feel better, when he's accosted by a hug and a hundred and fifteen pounds of excited twenty four year old. 

"Oh my god, daddy," Tracey shrieks in his ear. "Did you see me!? I totally won!"

"Yeah, I saw," Michael says, teeth gritted as he stares directly at Trevor's stupid, smug face over her shoulder. "I didn't know you'd be… Interested in this type of thing."

"Oh, I wasn't," Tracey says as she pulls back, rolling her eyes with a trace of distaste. "But Uncle Trevor says I can get famous if I win a lot."

"Of course he did," Michael says lowly, trying not to belay his dissatisfaction with her involvement. He hasn't seen her this happy since she was about twelve, and at least this is better than porn.

"Oh yeah, I get to choose one of these losers cars, too," Tracey says with a wild, excited look in her eyes, turning around and practically bouncing towards a pair of pissed off fellow racers. "I think I'll get the sparkly green one."

For the next minute or so, the only noise is the crunch of pasty, dry candy between a set of slightly crooked teeth.

"Come on, Mikey, lighten up," Trevor says, piercing the quiet with a scoff and waving Michael's mood off. "Less weight means faster times, it's basic math. Plus, she got her daddy's good looks and the sea-witch's trim body, perfect combo to knock these street racers off their game." 

"Yeah, whatever," Michael says sullenly, swiping the Ike and Mikes out of Trevor's hand. He's about to pour the box into his mouth before he's tilting his head toward where Tracey seems to be getting in a heated argument with another racer. "Go get my fucking pink slip before Princess ends up with a black eye, Uncle Trevor." 

Trevor sneers at him before going to help Tracey the cars, his loud, instigating remarks soon joining in with her caustic, dismissive ones.

"Dawg, your family messed up," Franklin says, the break in his silence accompanied by a sip of beer. "But it good entertainment."

"Shut the fuck up before I send you back to the car," Michael groans, rubbing at his forehead with the heel of his palm.

"Fuck you, man, I drove here with Lil T," Franklin scoffs, leaning against the Coquette with a slight smirk. 

"Don't even start that shit," Michael says with a glare, and crossing his arms over his chest. "I really don't need anyone implying my kids picked anything up from Trevor."

"You the one who named her," Franklin dismisses with a shrug, lips twisting to the side as he looks over Michael's shoulder. "Shame about the personality, though, can't control that." 

Michael closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, determinedly ignoring the sound of Tracey and Trevor verbally ripping some poor guy apart, soon probably physically if he doesn't interfere in the next few moments. "Shut up. Just… Shut the fuck up."


End file.
